


not all that glitters is gold

by antagonists



Category: Gintama
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cyberpunk, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-09
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:23:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4306680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antagonists/pseuds/antagonists
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They walk down the middle of the twisting path, black and white interposed over a gruesome scene of gold. In the white noise ruin, their unsheathed swords give way from gold to silver under the rain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not all that glitters is gold

**Author's Note:**

> for Em:  
> you supreme piece of shit

*

 

 

_Enter archived Portal No. 0018-0028? Press YES to confirm._

_Entry confirmed._

_Holoskins loading. Nervex loading. World loading. Personal data loading… Complete!_

_Entry to other worlds will not be available for 72 hours. You are now entering EDO PERIOD._

 

*

 

 

The portal opens in a graveyard strewn with cherry blossoms. The sun is low over the horizon, casting streams of sunset warmth past the streak of feathery, flaming clouds in the sky. It’s not a bad way to wake up, Hijikata thinks, sitting up to discover that he is dressed in a white kimono. Around Hijikata’s wrist is a leather bracelet, and on it dangles a wooden tag with his name carved in kanji. Until he reaches the closest bank, he’ll be without his items and respective data.

 

In other words, he’ll look every part a ghost until he officially passes through the world’s gate. He’s been in several worlds where the gate had been hidden in the most obscure places, and Hijikata had to truly wander like a misled spirit in the portal space until finally stumbling upon the gate. By then he had been so hungry he’d nearly passed out on his way to the city.

 

Hijikata sits up from the open grave, noting the wilting flowers and offerings eaten by stray animals. His arms and legs are still tingling from the Jump, and Hijikata finds the slide of silk across skin strange after years of wearing cotton and denim. The white is stark against his transparent, temporary flesh, seeming to glow as he picks his way around dulled rocks. Fallen petals are soft against his feet, and there are so many on the path that it’s like walking on a rosy, velvety blankets.

 

Upon him finally reaching the world gate, the sun sinks below the dark edge of land. The lanterns surrounding Hijikata burst into soft light, crackling with fiery warmth and welcome as he continues to the wooden doors that will lead into Edo.

 

Hijikata raises his arm and watches the nametag dangle in the dusky breeze. Recognizing Hijikata’s presence, the thick oak doors creak open. He squints at the flood of light. There is a dark shadow in front, standing with the light to his back. He’s dressed in a similar white kimono, but his eyes burn red. Hijikata steps towards the gatekeeper, who seems to be staring at him in vaguely disguised interest. It’s not peculiar; after all, Hijikata is entering an archived world that hasn’t seen new people since the new upgraded world-generator systems. He might be the only ghost this gatekeeper has ever seen, since guardians tend switch around in times of chaos.

 

“Welcome to Edo,” he says. When he shifts, Hijikata catches the glimpse of a sword, kept close and secure like a prized memory. “You really picked a bad time to switch things up, though. We’re at war here.”

 

“That’s okay,” Hijikata says. He’d known about it anyways. “War is fine.”

 

The gatekeeper arches an eyebrow. “Anyways. Formalities say I’m to lead you to town. You can reopen your inventory there, finally get some flesh on that ghostly shell of yours, set up your residence, yada yada. If you have any questions, just ask.”

 

“Are you fighting in the war?” Hijikata asks, eyeing the katana at the man’s side. His eyes are sharp, quick. He has this air of being edgy from constant battle. If, he thinks, he were to reach towards the keeper unexpectedly, he might lop that hand off just on reflex. Not like it would do much, though; as a shell with the barest minimum of data, the attack wouldn’t affect him at all. He might not even feel pain, might not even feel anything.

 

“Most people are,” he responds airily. “If you don’t like the idea of having to fight, you might want to jump worlds again after the waiting period.”

 

He seems to insinuate that Hijikata looks weak and well-made for a life outside of conflict. Or maybe it’s that he doesn’t expect anyone from outside this world to survive for too long. Callous words in a trying time—he may not even be meaning to insult Hijikata.  A frown tugs at Hijikata’s lips as he looks away. “I’ve been here before, so I’ll be fine.”

 

Humming, the gatekeeper keeps his expression unreadable. His dull eyes look over Hijikata once more, not finding anything particularly interesting in his pre-entry stage. “Is that so? Alright then, my dear ghost. Let’s take you to town and get yourself situated. Otose should let you stay for a while, but I’m warning you, she has the nastiest temper ever known to man.”

 

With that said, the gatekeeper turns his back and begins walking down the path of cherry blossom petals, unamused and indifferent. The gate closes when Hijikata passes through it, shutting with the sound of rusty hinges and cracking wood. He reaches his hand out towards the faint light coming from the village, and it passes right through him. It’s expected, of course, he hasn’t fully recovered and loaded his personal data, so he won’t resemble much more than a mannequin with a broken voice.

 

“Oh, and by the way,” the gatekeeper says in his disinterested voice. He turns halfway to look at Hijikata, lazily picking at his nose. “The way there is kinda dangerous, so try to stay close to me, yeah?”

 

 

*

 

 

The dirt road to Kabuki District is overgrown with weeds and crumbling fences. They walk past the occasional corpse, unrecognizable, but definitely not human in nature. The bodies themselves are completely black, as if they’d been burned to death, and the dried stains glow a vague color that reminds Hijikata of fool’s gold.  He stares at them whenever they pass one, noting that the gatekeeper doesn’t even cast the bodies a mere glance. He trudges through the maze of corpses without a second thought, walking mechanically and tiredly. A single-track mind honed through the focus that war demands—Hijikata’s not exactly accustomed to it, but he supposes that adapting this way would be for the best in this world.

 

One of the reasons that Edo is already so run-down is that the realm is no longer provided updates and protection against bugs and viruses. Hacking into the central Terminal is difficult, but not impossible, and usually results in the degeneration of worlds until they are no longer inhabitable. As many say: the newer, the better. With each new world that programmers develop, more and more people leave their archaic digital realms in favor of a smoother and safer place.

 

Hijikata has fled, once, and he will not do it again.

 

Upon reaching a modest snack shop, the two of them walk under the rusty sign that reads _Otose’s_ in the hiragana that’s been replaced by Neo-Kanji in the surface worlds. The woman behind the bar gives Hijikata a cursory glance before waving him over and demanding his name tag. He hands it over, fascinated by the warmth of worn wood and nostalgic incense.

 

“Good thing you haven’t upgraded your profile to another version,” the owner, Otose, says, eyeing Hijikata skeptically. “One or two more and your data wouldn’t have been compatible for this world, you know. I’m not so sure if that can really be considered a good development, though, seeing as Edo isn’t the best place to be anymore.”

 

“In the world I worked in before, it was mandatory for us to keep up with software and profile updates,” he responds. “Most places now require the top updates so there isn’t any lag in personal data and firmware.”

 

“I won’t ask why you’re here,” the woman sighs, and gives Hijikata the plug with his data. “But you can leave in three days if you find the need to. Just ask that idiot to show the way back. He’ll get you there safely.”

 

Hijikata turns briefly to look at the gatekeeper who is nursing a cup of strawberry milk. He raises his head to Hijikata’s stare, blinks, and lowers it again. Since he’s not feeling the motivation to understand him, Hijikata pushes the plug into his nape, where his spine meets the base of his skull, and is momentarily stunned at the blue rush of data that comes streaming in. There are a bunch of loading screens in his immediate vision, all of which disappear within a matter of moments.

 

He blinks several times to clear his vision, then looks down at his hands to see that they are flesh and bone rather than ghostly holograms. Otose slides a small mirror across the counter, and he sees a familiar reflection looking back at him. One time, after a jump, Hijikata had had a glitch in his appearance, so his bodily proportions had not quite been correct. As far as he can see, though, there are no errors this time.

 

“You’re welcome to stay here for a few days until you get yourself situated,” Otose says. “I can’t say living with that slob will be the most comfortable, but it’s better than spending your first few nights out on the streets here. Until you’re properly armed, that is.”

 

“I have weapons in my inventory,” Hijikata recalls. “They should be in decent condition enough for a fight.”

 

Otose smiles bitterly around the lip of her kiseru. “Good that you’re physically prepared then. Make sure to take care of your mind, too.”

 

 

*

 

 

In the morning, Hijikata wakes to the sound of hard rain and thunder. The small clock on the floor shows it’s just past six in the morning, but with the storm in the way, even dawn won’t light the skies. He looks to the side, sees white hair poking out from the mess of the futon the gatekeeper’s made of his blankets. A blanket fort, of sorts.

 

Hijikata isn’t well-versed in how life works during war, but he’s pretty sure that one should be on their guard at all times. Right now, the keeper looks anything but, with the way he’s bundled up and snoring lightly. Caught in between the decision of leaving him alone and waking him, Hijikata instead creeps out of the bedroom, dragging the door shut as quietly as he can.

 

He finds his shoes at the entrance and slips them on mindlessly while searching his inventory for an umbrella. It materializes in his hand after a brief fizzle of light, heavy and dusty with disuse. Another moment later and he has a katana by his side, heavy but not unfamiliar.

 

The rain sounds soothing, somehow, over the wax paper of his umbrella, staccato and erratic like the course of battle. Carefully, Hijikata toes his way down the outside stairs and finds, when he reaches the ground, that there is no one out in the streets. It’s fairly dark, without even the smallest of street lights to ward away the chill, but he continues on as if this isn’t a problem. Still in his sleeping yukata, he is but another shadow in the cusp of waning dusk. His sandals click hollowly against the wet roads.

 

Eventually he reaches what seems like an abandoned park. The trees are barren. In the place of leaves, their boughs sway heavily in the wind with wet omikuji. Soaked from the rain, the paper wishes resemble little more than white lumps twisted around thin branches. He knows it’s not respectful of other’s wishes when he reaches out to pull one down, but when he manages to pry one off and peel it open, all the words have already been washed away by rain and time.

 

“Quite a rude guy, aren’t you, oi,” the gatekeeper calls from behind Hijikata, “Disrespecting people’s desires like that. You were suspicious from the beginning, but now I’ve three-thousand percent confirmed your immoral character.”

 

“Maybe,” Hijikata says. When he turns around, he notes that the keeper is without an umbrella. He instead stands carelessly in the rain, as white and dripping wet as the abandoned omikuji with no god to call out to. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

 

A snort. “It’s kinda hard to sleep when you’re mumbling about weird things and moving around like that.”

 

“I did that?” Hijikata blinks, able to see slightly better despite the rain now. He’s pretty sure that he doesn’t sleeptalk or anything, and he’s always thought that he was a relatively calm sleeper. “How long have you been out?”

 

“I’ve been on your tail since step one. Your error for not noticing me earlier.” The gatekeeper yawns and steps closer, nudging Hijikata in the side. He’s wet and all sorts of chilly, tall and pressing into Hijikata’s arm like an unstoppable force. “Oi, move over. It’s cold and raining and I don’t have an umbrella. Yours is big enough for two people, I think.”

 

“Ack!” Hijikata hisses as he flinches to the side. “Quit it, you’re wet! And what the hell? If you didn’t have an umbrella then why did you follow me?”

 

“To confirm that you are a good-for-nothing loser, of course. There’s definitely something suspicious about a guy who goes out when no one is awake. Isn’t that right, Oogushi?” Red eyes flicker down to Hijikata’s side where the hilt digs into skin. “Huh, you got a nice sword.”

 

“That’s not my name.”

 

“It is now. Anyways,” the gatekeeper hooks a casual arm around Hijikata’s shoulder, efficiently getting him wet with rainwater as well. “I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but this isn’t exactly a place to travel around alone unless you know what you’re doing. I dunno about you, but you kinda have this dumb look on your face that reads ‘Easy Target’ to others.”

 

Distracted by the warm press of the other man’s body, it takes a while for Hijikata to actually respond. He tenses his shoulders until they’re nearly touching the sides of his neck. The only thing keep their hips and legs from touching is the sharp protrusion of his katana. “Uh, I’ll be fine.”

 

“Is that so? I can take you back to the house if you’re lost.” The gatekeeper takes a step back, searching Hijikata’s eyes for something.

 

“I’m not _lost_ ,” he splutters. “And I can find my way back just _fine_.”

 

Holding his hands up, he sighs. “Okay, okay. I’m gonna head out to patrol a bit, so you just sit tight at home and wait like a good boy, yeah? No one really messes with Otose, so you should be safe if you don’t do anything stupid.”

 

“Right. Bye.” Hijikata rubs at his shoulder, watching the man in white disappear deeper into the quiet town. He frowns and turns back the way he’d come along, able to see some details that hadn’t been visible during his first pass through. Like the cracks in the walls, the drip of rainwater off of roof tiles, the vague reflection of the cloudy sky in an imperfect mirror.

 

The rain isn’t falling quite as heavily now, but it’s still sharp on the fiber stretch of his umbrella and stinging against his skin. He’s only wearing sandals, so his feet have been wet since those first few steps off the stairs. The straw is probably soaked through by now and caked with mud he’ll have to scrape out later. It’s likely that he’ll have to throw the shoes out, though, since they aren’t exactly made for walking in the rain.

 

He’s shivering by the time he staggers onto the second floor, slipping his sandals off hurriedly before setting his umbrella aside. After a minute or so of wandering around inside, he manages to find the towels and the bathroom. It doesn’t seem like there is hot water, though, so he settles for taking a very short bath in fear of going blue all over. He’s completely chilled by the time he finishes, and even pulling on a kimono and layers of haoris isn’t helping him get any warmer.

 

The gatekeeper finds him curled up and reading on a couch under a thick layer of blankets, grumpy with the lack of heat. He’s dripping both rain and gold ichor, a mess of delicate colors that shouldn’t at all be what war looks like. Hijikata stumbles out of the blankets, unsure of whether he should help or not. The book he’s reading nearly drops onto his foot.

 

“A bath would be nice,” he’s told. “I’ll be a few minutes.”

 

Since he doesn’t like sitting around doing nothing, Hijikata picks the ruined clothes off the wooden floor, placing them in a pile near the entrance. He finds a rag and wipes away the stains. The blood, when he accidentally smears some on his skin, burns strangely despite the cold weather. He scrubs at it until his skin is bright red, but the sensation still doesn’t disappear. When the door to the bathroom opens, he pulls his sleeve down to cover his wrist and stands, blinking at the sight of bare skin.

 

“Ah,” he says, quickly whirling around. “Sorry.”

 

“What, we’re both guys, right?” After a few moments of shuffling, the gatekeeper flops down on the other couch, dressed in yet another white kimono.

 

“You don’t have a holo-inventory?” Hijikata asks. It’s a standard for everyone else he’s met. The last person he’d known to go around traditionally had been some of the elderly people who couldn’t catch up with the rapid pace of personal data adjustments and world expansions.

 

“No, they’re too much effort.”

 

Hijikata’s baffled. Sure, the change had taken a while for him to get used to as well, but it’s certainly more convenient than lugging around a wooden chest as a holo-inventory equivalent. “Wouldn’t you need things out on the battlefield? Holo-invs can really help with that since you don’t actually need to carry packs for rations and all.”

 

As if Hijikata is a nagging mother, the gatekeeper waves his hand dismissively and uses the other hand’s pinky to pick at his ear. “Yeah, yeah, all that foreign babble makes no sense to me.” He blows at his finger, then shifts to peer curiously at Hijikata through his wet hair. “I know it hasn’t been three days yet, but are you sure you wanna stay here? You’re kinda expected to help fight if you’re staying, and I dunno if you’re proficient with a sword or not.” He pauses and tilts his head. “Then again, maybe that doesn’t matter since you might learn better from the experience.”

 

“You say that Edo’s at war,” Hijikata says slowly. “But I haven’t seen anyone fighting besides you, and that was on the way here. Where’s everyone else?”

 

“Right now? South. The gate’s where Yoshiwara used to be. It’s only been around two years since the mobs got really bad. I only came up here since the old gatekeeper died in action and we got the notification that you’d be coming soon.” He frowns. “But seriously, who the hell comes to visit Edo when we’re at war? There are people who wanna leave but can’t because of complications.”

 

“I know.” Hijikata says. “I had friends here, too.”

 

The gatekeeper gives him a blank look, shrugging. “Okay, your choice.”

 

Hijikata doesn’t like the silence that settles between them. He sits up against the cold air, and picks at his kimono. “Uh, what do you want me to do with your wet clothes?”

 

“Mm, those? Just throw those out. It’s not like I’m gonna run out of kimono for the dead in a place like this.”

 

 

*

 

 

A week later, morning finds Hijikata on a hill overlooking a horizon dotted with black corpses. Shiroyasha—at least, that’s what the gatekeeper says he’s called—prods at one with his foot. His face doesn’t reveal anything in particular, and he picks his nose while trudging forward. Again, stepping over decrepit bodies without a sense of hesitation or caring. Perhaps if Hijikata had stayed here as well, he’d had become insensitive to the spill and stench of blood.

 

“These are a few days old,” he mutters, glancing around at the occasional person they pass by. They all seem tired and unseeing, not even flinching at the sound of footsteps over dry soil. “Reinforcements will probably be here soon.”

 

“Is there some sort of camp here?” Hijikata might not have firsthand experience with war, but he has practical knowledge and picks up on scenarios quickly. With the amount of alien and human bodies scattered around, however, determining which side’s victory it is seems a futile task.

 

Shiroyasha’s lips twist. “Something like that, yeah. We’ll have to walk a bit more for that.” He looks into the distance, lower lip caught between his teeth. He seems worried, almost, like he’s searching for someone amidst the sea of dead, almost-dead, and long-since-dead faces. “Damn, I can’t tell if this battle was in our favor or not.”

 

Hijikata doesn’t answer, pulls his kimono tighter around his body and tugs at the sleeves. It’s not cold outside, and it’s not hot. The weather is a bland mix of lukewarm warmth mixed in with the occasional stale breeze. It’s so mediocre and unimposing that he’s on the balls of his feet, quick to react to any small noise, fidgety even when he can see nothing for kilometers. This might be what war does to people: string up their nerves so tight that they fray just from the weight of their own thoughts, so that they go mad just from the echo of their heartbeat.

 

“You’re gonna blow a fuse if you’re that tense.” Next to him, the keeper levels a stony stare at Hijikata’s face. “You’re making it too obvious that you haven’t fought before.”

 

“I have,” Hijikata grumbles. “Just not like this.”

 

“Still don’t know why you’re here,” Shiroyasha says, moving down a different path. “Better make your mind up quick. Once you actually get involved, the process of leaving Edo gets really complicated. Even I can’t help you at that point.”

 

He follows as he’s done for the past few days. “I don’t have any plans to leave.”

 

“Okay,” the gatekeeper says, again, continues to walk in silence.  

 

He says that a lot, like he’s not really taking in what Hijikata is telling him, like he’s trying not to listen. It’s the same thing that he says to Otose, too. If he’s being inconsiderate or thinking of other things, Hijikata isn’t so sure. The only things Hijikata really remembers from their conversations are warnings and aimless questions that spin him around in circles.

 

They don’t see the camp until it’s nearly sundown, when their bodies cast strange and oblong shadows across the bloody, desert plains. As expected, there isn’t a large amount of people there, and those who are still conscious have drawn expressions, looking listlessly at the far skies or at the entrancing fires before them. Hijikata sees one man propped up against a tent, tossing in pieces of his bread into the fire rather than eating it. Another one is staring past Hijikata, at Shiroyasha, eyes wide in either fear or awe, or maybe both. He’s like a moth to torchlight.

 

 _Shiroyasha’s back_ , the men start whispering amongst themselves, some of them reverently, some of them fearfully. _He’s back. Tell the commander, hurry, tell the commander that Shiroyasha has come back._

He casts a brief glance over to this infamous Shiroyasha, this man who pays his surroundings no mind and searches for something with a single-track mind. The men look towards this white-haired human as though he’s more of a god than a man, as though he’s salvation shining through the thick drapes of waking destruction. Hijikata feels somewhat like a shadow, trailing after this bright legacy amidst the quiescent land. He may as well be invisible in the eyes of the others.

 

“Leaving to retrieve one ghost was not necessary,” says a man with a jade gaze that cuts like diamond. His lips are curled into a sneer, and despite his shorter stature, he still holds himself proud. He looks at Hijikata with disdain, unruly hair flopping over his eyes. “We lost more men than necessary because of your whims.”

 

“Duty of the gatekeeper. Don’t complain just because you didn’t make the cut,” Shiroyasha snorts back. His teeth shine in the firelight like bloody gems, and for a moment Hijikata sees the dead souls of hundreds, of thousands, reflected in that leery smile. Then, as all tricks of light do, the image dissipates into the darkness.

 

Hijikata is led through the encampment by a fellow who talks much too loudly over the silence. He keeps chattering away even when Hijikata doesn’t respond, and he has half a mind to ask if that ridiculous head gear mutes sound so the man subconsciously talks at obnoxious volumes. He’s also ridiculously _tall_ , and for the first time in what seems like an eternity, Hijikata finds that he has to crane his neck up to look at someone in the eyes.

 

“Don’t worry about Sakamoto,” says a well-mannered soldier with a gentle face and sharp eyes, watching the laughing man stumble over something on his trek away. All of them seem to have gazes hardened with battle and weary with knowledge. “It’s how he copes, so we work around it. We have to keep our heads straight by any means.” He pauses, humming thoughtfully. “Well, mostly straight, anyways. It’s hard to say that we’re all sane here, but,” he leans in closer, whispering, “don’t tell the men that.”

 

“I won’t,” Hijikata says numbly.

 

The man smiles charmingly, patting him on the shoulder. “You’ll do well here. If you need anything, just ask the men to deliver a message to Katsura. I’ll attend to you as soon as I’m available. Otherwise, you should just find Gintoki in the camp somewhere.”

 

“Gintoki?” he asks, but Katsura is already gone, long hair sweeping past the tents. He’s left staring at the bit of dust that stirs from the ground and how his shadow flickers with the fires splaying dull light over his back.

 

The tent is sparse. There is no more than a sleeping mat that has probably been used and a threadbare blanket that smells of mold, a small bag with small rations. He tries a sip of the water, frowns at the stale taste, but swallows anyways. It has the hinting taste of something metallic, of something dusty and left forgotten. He sets the canteen aside, running his tongue over the front of his teeth, rises and pushes past the entrance to search for Shiroyasha.

 

Hijikata finds him idling off the camp, staring up at the blinking stars that dwarf their existence. He doesn’t turn his head until Hijikata lays down beside him, and his hair seems to glow in the distant, distant moonlight.

 

“So,” he says, “how’s the war experience?”

 

“Could be better,” Hijikata admits. He looks away from those wicked eyes and lets his gaze linger somewhere amidst the brightly speckled blanket of night. “Katsura seemed nice.”

 

“Yeah,” Shiroyasha responds vaguely. “Zura’s nice maybe half the time. He’s nicer to you since we need people to fight.”

 

“So—” He clears his throat, nervous around this gatekeeper that seems like he’s living in an entirely different universe. Even his eyes look as though they see other things—things like ghosts, demons, all the odious monsters that reside in a soldier’s quaking and vulnerable heart. Sometimes Hijikata wonders; does someone have to be half-dead to see into all those nightmarish creatures? “How long have you been fighting, then?”

 

“Uh, a few years. Two? Three? It’s been going on longer though.”

 

“You’ve even forgotten how long you’ve been fighting?” He regrets the words as soon as he says them, but Shiroyasha shows no visible reaction. Rather, with his closed eyes, he looks more asleep than annoyed.

 

“I dunno, Oogushi,” he says dismissively. “Why don’t you ask Zura? I’m sure he’d be of some help. He’s the pretty one with the brains to lead us in this god forsaken place.”

 

Hijikata leaves after a few more awkward moments of silence. He doesn’t probe for any more information and doesn’t seek Katsura’s sure wisdom.

 

His first night sleeping on war grounds is fitful and purging. When the sun rises over the horizon in all its taunting glory, Hijikata feels like he’s been awake for years without any rest. The loud soldier from the day before is loud even in the wee hours of morning. Blankly, Hijikata watches him toddle over to the Shiroyasha’s side, looking all too complacent and happy in this dreary place.

 

And Shiroyasha, he—he looks like a child, half asleep and blind to the world. He moves only when nudged, glares sleepily at anything or anyone that he happens to bump into, half-heartedly pokes and chews at the food given to him. When Takasugi jabs at his neck, he wrinkles his nose and pulls away. Messy hair, childish frown, young face; all of this disappears when he glances over in Hijikata’s direction. All of a sudden the distance comes back, and his eyes are more like sharply-cut jewels compared to their earlier marbled confusion.

 

Slowly, as flowers bloom, he bares his teeth at Hijikata. His smile glints, a mirror of pain.

 

 

*

 

 

With daybreak comes a flood of black hordes from over the dunes.

 

He sees tengu that have fallen from their high, mountainous perches, enenra that choke men with their thick trails of smoke. He beheads a snake-headed yokai, dismembers more of those ancient, nameless creatures that aren’t even mentioned in the upper worlds anymore. Angered spirits have never looked very pleasant, but they seem even more grotesque when they’re grinning at the chaotic sound of battle.

 

A towering, steaming Gashadokuro crushes both ally and enemy alike when it falls, breaking apart into huge ebony pieces that makes noises akin to temple bells upon impact with the ground. Hijikata barely rolls to the side in time and comes face to face with the giant skull, panicking when the flaming crimson eyes bore straight through him. They dim soon enough, but his frantic heart is still gripped with fear that locks his body into place.

 

Several heaving breaths later, he finally gets back onto his feet. His armor is heavy and chafes his skin through the clothes and he worries that he may not even survive his first battle. He takes his helm and yanks it off, tossing it aside as he scans his surroundings. He’s hidden from view due to the large corpse, but he keeps his sword at the ready just in case.

 

Up front, wearing blinding white garb splattered with gold, Shiroyasha roars.

 

Had his life not been in danger, Hijikata would’ve watched for hours. Being as he has his feet on the battlefield, however, he turns his back and thrusts his blade into the gaping maw of an inugami. Nothing, he thinks as he charges forwards, could possibly weigh more than the pressure of defeat pushing her pretty hands over his eyes and murmuring into his ears. He hears her clearly over the sound of screams, feels her wheat-golden hair brush against his neck whenever he whirls around to parry.

 

 _Toshi_ , she calls softly and giggles when he grits his teeth. _You finally came back_. _Are you tired of running from me now?_

 

He remembers having first fled to a watercolor world. Standing too long in one place encouraged the ground to turn into liquid, and he had soon found himself drowning because of his fear of moving too far. A room with a fountain of black ink, castles made of mottled feathers, ghosts and mannequins drooping in the moonlight, clouds of fire and forests like deep oceans; all of these memories come flooding back as he twists his sword into equally twisted hearts and souls. She whispers and coos and whispers some more, a vengeful ghost of the past that comes to visit him while wearing an emerald kimono with cherry blossom sleeves.

 

Hijikata cuts through her too, of course, heaving for breath as he blinks sweat out of his eyes. Around him are piles of decay, smelling oddly of sulfur. Gold mist hangs low over the ground, and despite the shadows jutting through, the field looks a morbid rendition of heaven, or at least what Hijikata has been told by others, anyway. A shining paradise wrought from their desperation and unheard dying words. He wipes at his forehead, frowns at the glittering smudge on his hand that he feels before he sees.

 

The adrenaline still thrums fast and loud. Hijikata picks his way through the wet sands and past empty shells before pausing to look up. There, at the top, stands a man who borders more on demon than human with those hunched shoulders and snarled expression. He seems to almost not recognize Katsura who approaches him carefully, a firm hand reaching to both pull him closer and hold him steady.

 

He turns away respectfully, heads towards the rest of the straggling soldiers gathering together.

 

“Oho!” he hears from his right. “You survived!”

 

Hijikata observes that way Sakamoto’s smile stretches his dry lips, how his blue eyes seem too bright in this purgatory. “Yeah,” he says, sheathing his sword and keeping it by his side. He has a feeling that opening his inventory in the open will attract unwanted and hostile looks. “Are we done here, or?”

 

“Gotta collect the bodies,” Sakamoto says. “Or at least what’s left of them. Sometimes the nametags get ripped off, and well, you know what happens to people who lose those.”

 

Hijikata doesn’t, but he stays silent in favor of maintaining some sense of dignity. Here, showing weakness might as well be signing a contract into death. “I see.”

 

“Shinsuke’s always so anal about these things. I wasn’t there at the time, but apparently he was really cute as a kid. Not as cute as Kintoki, though. That’s what Zura says anyways. But Shinsuke’s cute when he’s not grumpy! I mean, look at how short and cuddly he is!”

 

If it’s Takasugi that he’s talking about, Hijikata knows that the other man is about as cuddly as a rampant yokai, maybe even less so.

 

This is another one of those times that Hijikata fidgets uncomfortably. These four men, out of all of their meager forces, address each other so casually and familiarly that he’ll sometimes wonder just how well they know their respective memories with one another, how close they’ve had to stay together in this unforgiving world of loss and decay. Echoes of the past, binding them all together regardless of how far away they want to be. Tight, tight, tighter, choking them in an endless loop of seeing who can last the longest and who’s the one to pull them all down in a slow burn.

 

How would it feel, he wonders, to be tied down to someone who wanted to destroy you?

 

Well, he knows the answer to a certain extent. He, too, drags around those elaborate ribbons of history like chains. They dangle from his neck like grim garlands, cinch at his wrists like the skeletal hands of those who should have been long since buried. But of course, their newer bodies no longer sit still and rot when they die. Now they putter out like candlelight, leaving nothing but soon-to-be-forgotten memories and legacies that are recorded over holographics rather than carved into stone.

 

In Edo, perhaps, they still have to deal with the dead bodies. Hijikata confirms this when he sights Shiroyasha and Katsura walking back. In the gatekeeper’s right hand, his sword is still drawn, in his left, a bloodied human arm. His expression is blank, as though he’s not truly seeing what’s in front of him. He pushes past Hijikata and stands in front of his grinning comrade, holds out the arm with its limp fingers and jutting fragments of bone.

 

“Figured you’d want to bury him,” he says. Sakamoto, for once, is quiet. He takes the severed limb into hand in a regretful sort of daze, turning to walk away without even the smallest comment. As he leaves, his shoulders seem to draw in on themselves, and suddenly the biggest of them all has the smallest, most frail back that Hijikata has ever seen.

 

 

*

 

 

Later, Hijikata asks Shiroyasha about the nametags. In the upper worlds he’s traveled through, bodies disappear without a trace, convenient and to the point. So desensitized they’ve become to the notion of accessibility and ease that even they themselves end up as nothing more than dust.

 

“To be blunt,” Shiroyasha replies around a mouthful of dry bread. “They go mad if they aren’t already dead.”

 

“Mad?”

 

“Oh, you know. Your nametag has all your personal data on it, right? What do you think would happen to someone who suddenly lost all that information they’ve always depended on? That thing’s like a soul—you lose it and you might as well be buried with everyone else.”

 

“You don’t just… disappear?”

 

Shiroyasha scoffs, his eyes covered by the unruly mess of his wet hair. Hijikata’s eyes follow the line of his jaw from the curve of his ear all the way down to his chin, then to his neck, then lower. He doesn’t realize that he’s staring quite blatantly until he reaches the bend of Shiroyasha’s knee beneath his clothes. His gaze darts to the roguish curve of Shiroyasha’s lips before he finally looks away.

 

“What, you think that we can die that prettily? We don’t do that here. We can’t afford to die like that. Didn’t I say that we go mad? We go mad and then we rot just like those things out there.” He doesn’t look at Hijikata, glares up at the cloudy skies with those brooding eyes. Hijikata catches himself staring again and looks away quickly, embarrassed. “Unlike you, we don’t have the audacity to just leave nothing when we go. If it’s our time to go, we’re going to do it in the ugliest way we can, spill our guts and our blood everywhere to show that we  god damn existed.

 

If we gotta live in a pretty way, what’s the point of death if we don’t leave something behind?”

 

He turns to look at Hijikata properly this time. “Or are you saying you’d rather go that way, too? If so, you can leave. I’ll take you to the portal.”

 

“No,” he replies, surprised at how steady and determined he sounds. “I’m fine with this.”

 

“Huh,” Shiroyasha says, beautiful as he reclines and bares his throat to the sky. “Funny guy, aren’t you.”

 

Hijikata lies down too. There’s sand in his shoes and Shiroyasha is a heavier presence than the sword by his side. “Maybe.”

 

 

*

 

 

Within the next week, Hijikata stumbles upon Sakamoto late at night. The soldier jumps about a meter into the air, squirming guiltily and looking at anything but Hijikata.

 

“Ah, you’re out late!” he laughs awkwardly, rubbing at the back of his head. He has a pack tied around the end of a stick, dressed in dark clothes that let him blend into the night easily. Clutched in one hand is a faded nametag that Hijikata recognizes from earlier, scribbly kanji that’s nearly illegible from age. Sakamoto notices this and moves his hand behind his back, his smile becoming more strained by the second.

 

“I am,” Hijikata finally says, averting his eyes to count the stars above Sakamoto’s head. There are four of them, one outshining the others with its garish light. “It’s too late to be out. You should get some rest too.”

 

Sakamoto’s eyes glint like sapphires as he nods shakily. “Yeah, you as well. See you tomorrow.”

 

“See you tomorrow,” Hijikata echoes.

 

Come morning, however, the camp is oddly silent and empty. The men move about sluggishly, their eyes dull like rusted blades and their feet shuffling in lethargic movements. Shiroyasha is no exception to this, but there are dark circles around his eyes and Hijikata finds himself tempted to reach out to wipe them away, as if the bone-deep weariness is something that can be cleansed so easily. He almost does lift his hand towards that sleepy face, but holds back at the last moment to rub at his own. Shiroyasha spares him less than a glance before slumping over at a cooking spit, half-asleep.

 

The Kiheitai Commander’s rage is cold and harsh. The only visible facet of his rage lies in the slight twitch of his sword arm and in his eyes, glowing bright and fierce with flaming ire. Hijikata keeps a wide berth from him, lest he _accidentally_ mistake Hijikata as one of the Amanto, or simply just cut at him because of his blinding hurt. Katsura, for all his efforts in trying to keep the men together, says not a word about Sakamoto’s absence.

 

It’s like they all know that he hadn’t really belonged here in the first place; with his head up in the clouds half the time and his booming laughter that could draw enemy attention from a kilometer away, he’s living in a world too small and too old to contain his momentous fervor. As birds do, he’ll break his wings again and again trying to reach another endless limbo by crashing through walls.

 

In that day’s battle, fearless Commander Takasugi Shinsuke loses his left eye. Shiroyasha is there the span of a bare breath, slicing at the cackling yadokai with his sword that seems to be in seven places at once. The bronze staff rings tauntingly with its innocent bells and chimes, dripping with blood in tandem to the teary slip of red down Takasugi’s fingers. Hijikata can only spectate from a distance, distracted by each blow that’s aimed his way. He slips in a puddle of golden liquid, losing his footing in a way that he manages to avoid getting his head cleaved straight off.

 

His palm is immersed in the burning fluid, and he stares at the reflection looking back at him: white-faced, red-eyed, jagged teeth, and long black hair that he hasn’t seen in ages. He’s so startled that he stays still for precious moments until he hears Shiroyasha’s voice crash through his fright.

 

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” he’s shouting. Blood is streaking his silver hair, running down his sleeves and his heavy armor. Now that the blood is actually red and not gold, Hijikata at last feels as though he’s fighting an unwinnable war. Shiroyasha lunges, sword impaling an enemy before he’s grabbing at Hijikata’s arm, hauling him up with reckless strength and worry. “Stay on your feet! We’re retreating!”

 

He’s pulled along and has to force his legs to move properly. Sweat is running into his eyes so all he can see is a blur of white in front of him—white and tawdry yellow and all that sickening red that makes his head spin. His hand feels like it’s on fire and it’s all he can do to clutch onto his sword and keep stumbling.

 

It is not only Takasugi’s eye that they lose that day. Shiroyasha seeks him out that night and comes back with a bruised cheek, brooding into Hijikata’s shoulder in angry silence. They’ve lost their laughter and their perspective in the span of one battle, and for the first time in forever, Hijikata keeps longing for home.

 

“Shiroyasha,” he says, torn between pulling away and running his fingers through that ridiculous hair.

 

“Don’t call me that,” the gatekeeper replies, “Not now.” Hijikata feels his chest go numb as a hot whisper blows past his ear. “You know my name, don’t you?”

 

“Maybe,” he whispers back, but does not say the name out loud. In his mind, it repeats over and over, filling his head until he thinks that he might be able to forget everything else.

 

During their march back to camp after a particularly bad evening of fighting, Shiroyasha is leaning heavily on him, staggering under the effort of having fought for so long. Hijikata had taken brief reprieves like the other men, but knows that their white savior has little time even to breathe or think outside the movements of his body and sword. Katsura gives them a long look, but it isn’t hostile like Takasugi’s one-eyed glares. He even gives a small smile in their direction, nudging the men at his side along to give them some space. Hijikata isn’t so sure whether he should be grateful or embarrassed, and finds himself blushing with a combination of the two.

 

“We’re running out of water,” Hijikata observes, noting that their meager rations are starting to look more like a starved village’s meals. “Running out of food, too.”

 

“Running outta a lot of things,” says Shiroyasha, unmoving from his position glued to Hijikata’s side. “Men, for one; sanity too. And you still haven’t called me by my name.”

 

“You’re running out of patience,” he retorts. “Is that all you’re thinking about?”

 

Shiroyasha grins, leans closer so that their lips are nearly touching. “Something like that, yeah.”

 

“People are going to look,” he hisses, trying to crane his neck away but unable to because of their proximity.

 

“What, like that matters? We’re not exactly innocent lambs here.”

 

“Oh for— _Gintoki_!” Hijikata swears when he feels fingers grabbing at his bandaged hand. The gatekeeper freezes at the sound of his name, eyes riveted on Hijikata’s reddening face. His slow grin is torture to look at, and Hijikata abruptly pulls away with a grumble.

 

Laughing, Gintoki reaches out for him and yanks him back by the shoulder. “Oogushi, it’s not nice to leave me rotting out here all alone.”

 

“Piss off,” Hijikata snorts. He leans in anyways.

 

 

*

 

 

It’s the middle of autumn when rains flood Edo. They’re forced to trek back to the closest town since they’re clear out of rations and the majority of the men are either sick, half-starved, or both. Hijikata’s only wearing a thin layer of clothes when he exits the inn he’s staying at—surprisingly well-furnished and functional for such a dead world—sighing at the sound of hard rain hitting wax paper. The umbrella trembles in his hand as if trying to flinch away from storm, and it really doesn’t do much good since the wind is spraying all the water onto his skin regardless.

 

He’s gotten used to the sight of empty streets and closed windows, the constant chill and dreary weather that accompanies grief. Although everything here is so chaotic, the inside of Hijikata’s head is the calmest it has ever been. He’s emptied his holo-inventory long ago; it’s been ages since Hijikata has even thought about it, and his nametag is bound tightly in leather and hangs around his neck like a fetter.

 

Hijikata walks slowly, lets the rain soak through his clothes until he’s sure that everything but the folded paper in his left hand is heavy with water. In the reflections in the rippling puddles that he passes by, he is but a mere shadow against an even darker sky.

 

When he reaches a wishing tree, he sets the umbrella aside and ties the omikuji tightly around a sturdy branch. Exposed to the deluge, the paper quickly softens, and ink stains rise quickly through the fiber like blood. He looks for moment more, dazed, until he remembers that there is someone waiting for him. He blinks away the rain as he picks his umbrella back up, and starts to walk back towards the war with a numb heart set in between melancholy and wonderland.

 

“You’re late,” Gintoki says, eyeing the puddles beneath his feet.

 

“Yeah,” he hums, briefly warmed by the fall of Gintoki’s haori over his shoulders. They walk down the middle of the twisting path, black and white interposed over a gruesome scene of gold. In the white noise ruin, their unsheathed swords give way from gold to silver under the rain.

 

The sounds of their wooden sandals on the ground echo louder than the storm.

 

 

*

**Author's Note:**

> forever yodeling angrily at sorachi


End file.
